Stranger than Fanfiction
by TheLocket
Summary: Heather Westerton is writing her new fanfic. Draco Malfoy is her main character. Little does she know. . .Draco really exists. . . and what happens when he's had enough of her narrating?
1. Chapter 1

A/N: First of all, I'd like to think BIZZIE! YAY! Thanks for the idea/plot/etc. . .and. . .yeah. . .please review, I would really appreciate feedback!

---

The cursor flashed on the screen, blinking impatiently, evenly, counting out the seconds as she thought. She replaced her fingers, hit the enter key, and began typing.

_There was something calming about being alone. With nothing but a trusty Nimbus 2001 beneath you, hovering hundreds of feet above the ground was strangely comforting. Not that many normal people would agree. But Draco Malfoy was not normal; not by any standards._

_As a wizard he was instantly considered strange by muggles, and as a Pureblood he was without doubt in a different class; add in his family, his father, and the man his father served and one could clearly see that Draco Malfoy was far from normal._

The cursor began to blink again, as though daring the girl to continue. After pushing a stray lock of golden-brown hair behind her ear she replaced her fingers on the keys, her right pointer finger smoothing the "j" key as she thought.

_From his perch up in the sky, Draco could see far into the distance. To his left the Forbidden Forest stretched, the dark boughs waving slightly ominously in the cold September breezes. Below him, the Hogwarts grounds lay like a strangely green ocean, the tiny blades of grass waving in the brisk breeze. Hogwarts, to his right, rose above the Quiddich Pitch and Herbology Greenhouses, the tall towers impressively looming and blocking out the horizon._

The girl typing paused as though to recreate the scene in her mind and search for new details. After a moment of thought, she continued.

_Draco deftly steered the broom, causing it to zoom silently and quickly towards the ground. Just before hitting, he tweaked the handle so that his toes skimmed the tall grass of the field he had been hovering over. His bright blue eyes expertly skimmed the scenery. Despite the beautiful landscape, he looked extremely bored; beauty, wealth – all had become trite to Draco, the boy who had always had everything._

_Well, almost everything. What Draco wanted most was_

The typing stopped, and with it the soft clicking of the keys. The girl was staring at the last sentence, her eyes tracing the five-lettered name her fingers had just typed. What was it that Draco wanted most? She was going to write "someone to love", but now that seemed foolish, silly, immature. On second thought, she deleted the last line.

_As much as Draco Malfoy believed that there was nothing more he could need, he was about to find out just how much he needed the one thing he had never had._

_As he circled on his broomstick, his perfect, fair hair catching the cool breeze –_

"HEATHER!"

The girl with the brown-blonde hair at the computer sighed and silently cursed her mother. Of course she would interrupt her thoughts once more. The yell was followed by a loud noise like that of stampeding elephants; her mother had just down the stairs.

"Heather, it's past eleven," her mother called over the banister. The girl glanced at the time in the bottom left-hand corner of the computer. It was 11:02 pm. True, after eleven.

"I know, Mom," she replied without glancing from her story. She hadn't even written a page yet. Couldn't her mother have waiting just a few more minutes?

"Shouldn't you be getting to bed? Tomorrow's school."

Heather sighed once more, and saved her document. Her mother, content that her daughter was going to sleep, returned up the flight of stairs, calling over her shoulder, "Don't forget to turn out the lights!"

Heather glanced at her computer; a few clicks and the screen no longer had _his_ name on it, but read, "Shutting down." After a few minutes, Heather had turned out the lights and was walking upstairs to her bedroom, thinking not about school or homework but Draco Malfoy.

---

Across and ocean, back in time about a decade, and in a slightly different world, Draco Malfoy sighed, equally as frustrated. The broomstick he held in his hand would no longer hover; it was just a piece of wood again, a lame prop. He threw it on the ground, disgust on his beautiful face. Cursing, he trudged back up to the castle. From his perspective, the sky, while beautifully blue, seemed too perfect, like a backdrop for a movie or play. The castle, while giving the appearance at first glance of great age, looked fairly new to him. The wooden doors at the front didn't lock; he was able to easily push them open. Like they could even withstand a little rain, let alone a siege.

Once inside he walked to the Great Hall. The long wooden tables were empty but for a few students and teachers; Albus Dumbledore, Severus Snape, and Professor McGonagall sat at the teachers' table; Harry Potter, Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger, and Ginny Weasley were seated at the Gryffindor table. The rest of the tables were empty. It looked ridiculous; with Draco, there were only five students in the massive hall. The tables were completely bare except for a single boul of soup that someone had managed to make.

"Hey," called Harry.

"Hey," Draco responded, his tone just as bored.

"What's this one about?" asked the Gryffindor.

"No idea," replied Draco, walking over to the Gryffindor table to serve himself a boul of soup. Why did he even need to eat? He certainly wasn't hungry. But he supposed it had become habit, like breathing and sleeping.

"What do you think the pairings will be?" that was Hermione. Draco shrugged, mouth full of soup. If only those stupid fanfiction writers could see them then; nothing peculiar, no magical, no drama. Maybe then they wouldn't be caught in the strange limbo as they had been since that Rowling woman had written that book in the 1990s. Had it really be ten years? Draco had lost count. For ten years he had been stuck in adolescence. There was going to be hell to pay once he figured his way out.

"I bet she'll use some other character," Draco replied grouchily. He hated those new characters. What Mary-Sous they were, flouncing into Hogwarts five, six, seven years late. And they were much more transparent, much more fake. He was surprised that anyone could read those stories and believe that people like Mirielle de Poesy were actually real people. The thought made him laugh. As though girls like that actually existed!

"Nah," replied Hermione, "I'm sure that won't happen. Maybe we'll be a couple." Draco glanced at Hermione. She, too, had become strangely empty and dull; her character had undergone so many changes from Rowling's work to the slash fanfiction to those sappy stories written by teenage girls. Draco knew what it was like. He had, over the years, been a troubled teen, an evil Death Eater, a medieval knight, a polygamous husband, a hero, a villain. . .a ferret. . . When was it going to end? – And, worse than that, he had met Darth Vader and Frodo Baggins and Peter Parker. He had kissed Hermione, had an affair with Ron, dated Harry. . .each fanfic had come to blur, but, worse than that, they had overlapped; in the morning he was dark and disturbed, when he'd meet Harry in dark corners. . .that evening he was marrying Hermione, happy. . .all the actions and feelings forced upon him by those many authors toying with his reality had removed all his sense of time, emotion, and life; he had come to see life as empty.

"I'm not hungry." He pushed the bowl away. He got up and left the table, muttering angrily, "_Boy who had everything_ my ass."

---

Heather spent that at school day walking through the halls trying to think of the perfect girl for Draco Malfoy. She wished so much that it would be her. But it couldn't; she slouched when she sat in French class, she washed her hands obsessively, she could never remember her locker combination. . .

In her eyes, her flaws consumed her character, and her skills became problems; her interest in art would be unattractive to a boy like Draco Malfoy – he wouldn't want a girl who was interested in sketching, who could stare out at Long Island Sound for hours. Her good grades in school would be brushed off as nerdiness. Her hair was to curly, or not curly enough; she chewed loudly; her feet were too big.

As a girl who spent her time designing Mary-Sous and dreaming about Draco Malfoy, Heather was too quick to judge herself, seeing her own life with an artist's eye, one that judged harshly and critiqued her own every movement. Raising her hand in math class was too forward; when she spoke it was too loud, or too quiet. Sitting here at lunch was too audacious, while offering to read her essay in English class was being a show-off, and her writing wasn't that good anyway. . .

Her insecurities made her the quiet girl, while although she saw herself as a nerd or an artist, the others didn't see her at all; a few nice girls had befriended her, but they didn't understand her when her gray eyes went cloudy as she stared out the window; they couldn't understand why she stopped on the way to the cafeteria to stare out the window at a certain flower. How could they? Heather never spoke to them.

And, on the off chance a boy did speak to her, she would stare like a frightened deer, causing the speaker to guffaw and laugh with his friends. If she did get a chance to respond, her voice was so frail and quiet that he often couldn't hear.

Such was her day-to-day life that had her dreading school and wishing for weekends, when she could unfold her dad's old laptop and sit in her room, putting her dreams of Draco Malfoy into letters and symbols that remained for her to read over.

There was one thing about school she did like – it was seeing _him_. Like Draco Malfoy, _he_ was rich. _He_ could do layups while palming a basketball, scored about half of the touch-downs in during his Junior year while starting on the school's football team, and his brown-auburn hair was straight and fell into his eyes just as Draco's did. His eyes were brown, not piercing blue, but he stood about as tall as Draco, and walked with the same over-accentuated swagger.

She knew how to describe Draco – it was just _him_, Louis Christianson. The name made her look around, as though someone could read her thoughts. Thinking his name seemed scandolous, as though she sullied it by thinking it with her mind. But what about the girl? His girl? The girl that was to be his girlfriend?

Thinking that she felt her attention wander. How much she wished that someone could use those words to describe her: Oh, Heather Westerton. She's _his_ girl. The thought made her want to smile and cry at the same time; it was such hope, such desperate hope, while, at the same time, such desperate despair. If only her life was planned, pre-destined so that someone else was manipulating her puppet-strings so that she knew she'd end up with Prince Charming. If only she lived in a fanfic.


	2. Chapter 2

_Draco Malfoy was seated on a bench outside when he first saw her. The sound of hoof beats made him glance up from the Dark Arts book he was reading, and when his eyes fell upon the gray carriage it was with interest and not the normal expression of scorn or contempt._

Heather paused, imagining what it would have been like to sit in the carriage, as it lurched forward towards the looming castle of Hogwarts. Closing her eyes, she could almost see the interior of the carriage, richly decorated. She could almost feel the rich texture of the dark gray velvet seats, the smoothness of the silk curtains tasseled with soft, shiny tassels. If she pulled back the window, she could glance out at the Hogwarts grounds passing by, and if she chanced to raise her head at the right moment, there was a chance she could lock eyes with the most attractive boy in the entire school.

_At that very moment he was glancing towards the carriage, a pair of soft green eyes were peering out at him. For a moment he was caught in the glance, staring at her as the two chestnut horses pulled her towards the castle gate._

_After a moment of staring after her, Draco closed the book, as if in a trance, and laid it upon the bench. Within a moment, he was standing at the castle doors, watching her get out of the carriage._

_The first thing he noticed was that her hair was a pale golden color, which she wore straight and down so that it fanned out on her back and seemed to glimmer against the dark blue of her cloak. Next, he noticed her clothing. His eyes traced the green silk of her dress. Finally, he met her face, one that was staring at him with slight apprehension, pale lips slightly parted, frozen without breathing._

_Suddenly, she had turned; Filch had arrived, and was taking her bags. Even as the caretaker led the girl within, Draco remained motionless in the evening shadows, watching the girl walk into the castle._

In Heather's mind, the scene was beautiful and perfect, like that in a Disney movie. The prince was now watching his new princess, as she felt a growing feeling of embarrassment and excitement. She would be perfect for him. Together, they would walk through Hogwarts together, laughing, enjoying every moment. Voldemort would be forgotten. Nothing could go wrong as long as they were together.

_Her name, Draco soon learned, was Amber. He watched her all during dinner, as she sat at the staff table, politely leaned in to the conversation. Every time she smiled, Draco felt his heart jump. The torchlight made her eyes twinkle, and in the warmth of the room, she had thrown off her cloak so that her emerald robes drew all eyes. Draco was oblivious to the loud chatter in the room. He did not notice when his fellow Slytherins stared. Pansy Parkinson followed his gaze, and her eyes narrowed when she found the girl he was staring at._

"_What are you looking at?" she pouted._

"_Nothing." Draco actually turned to her, and found that the rest of his table-mates were also staring. At his comment, Pansy pushed out her lower lip and returned to her dinner. Draco stared at the rest of the people at his table until they, too, returned to their own affairs._

_When he glanced back, she was gone. He was so distraught he didn't hear the soft footsteps._

"_Hi," came a soft voice. He turned, and was caught off guard. "I'm Amber. Is this seat taken?"_

---

Draco could have gagged. The second Heather turned off her screen, the torches in the hall went out. The students who had been chattering and laughing froze and faded, leaving the hall cold, dark, and fairly empty.

"Well, it is now," he murmured disgustedly. The girl, Amber, sat down next to him. She was perfect, Draco had to admit. Watching her, however, was disconcerting, like watching a robot. As she sat, it was apparent that she wasn't truly there; her posture was perfect, her eyes stared forward without connecting to anything; her hands were folded perfectly in her lap.

Harry, Ron, and Hermione had come over to sit at the Slytherin table. The food, too, had faded; all the baked chicken and mashed potatoes and steaming tureens of soup, and even the golden silverware was no longer there.

"Hello, I'm Hermione." She sat down across from Draco, smiling warmly at the Barbie-doll-girl sitting next to him.

"Hi, I'm Amber," she replied, a fake smile displaying all of her plastic-looking teeth.

"Nice to meet you," Hermione replied genuinely. Ron and Harry were staring at the girl, both equally disgusted and intrigued. Amber was silent, staring at Hermione with an angelic smile on her face.

"I'm Ron." He sat down next to Hermione.

"Harry."

"Hi, I'm Amber," she repeated for a third time.

"Where are you from, Amber?" asked Hermione kindly, perhaps wishing to start a conversation.

"I came in a carriage," the blonde girl replied.

"From. . .?" prompted Draco, turning to look at her, waiting patiently for an answer.

"I came in a carriage," she repeated, her eyebrows furrowing, causing her perfect, porcelain skin to wrinkle in her confusion.

"How was that carriage?" Hermione continued, trying fruitlessly to hold a conversation for the first time in ten years with someone other than the professors plus her other friends.

"It was gray," Amber said, turning to Draco, as though he had been the one to ask the question.

"Ah," he replied, and when he spoke her face lightened as though galvanized by him.

"You have such a beautiful voice," she told him, her voice idolizing. She leaned in towards him. He tried very hard to stay still, but it was difficult, especially when she placed her head on his chest. He fought the urge to shove her away.

"I can hear your heart beating," she murmured. Draco rolled his eyes. How fluffy was this going to get? One of her perfectly-manicured hands grabbed his shoulder.

"I have to go the bathroom," he blurted out, and stood. She stared at him, her green eyes wide in her smooth, pale face, but didn't say anything.

"I'll go with you," Hermione volunteered. Just as the two of them left the room, Draco heard Harry say, "So, Amber, what was your carriage like, again?"

---

In Heather's English class, the Mrs. Flett had just assigned a group essay. The chaos that resulted had most of the class seated with their desks turned into circles, as the chatter in the room increased. Heather had been staring at the clock for the past ten minutes, watching the red second hand slowly circle the black-and-white face. In front of her, three boys were laughing and joking. The noise in the room was oppressive, as people argued over wording the who would contribute what. Heather was completely silent, waiting with measured deep breaths, trying not to stare the boy infront of her.

Finally, the bell rang. She quickly scooped up her bag and books, and started walking as quickly as she could for the door, mentally cursing herself for the sloppiness of her hair or the redness of her face or the way her clothing fit.

"Hey, Heather!" she heard a voice call, one that almost made her heart stop. Turning she saw the three boys in her group approaching her. No question was in her mind as to which one had spoken.

He was standing in the middle, flanked by his friends, Brad and Mark, who had identical grins on their faces..

"Heather," Louis said, his voice casual and brown eyes staring into Heather's gray ones. "I was wondering, could you do me a favor?" She nodded mutely. She didn't even notice as the two other boys brushed past her, after they quickly knocked fists with Louis. She did notice that his eyes drifted momentarily as he acknowledged their exit. After a moment, he turned back to her.

"Well, the essay's due on Friday, but we've got basketball. So, I was wondering, could you get a head start on it." It didn't sound like a question, but Heather nodded anyway.

"Hey, B!" he called, striding past her and towards the door where his friends were waiting. "It's covered. So, about that party Thursday night. . ."

Heather stood for a moment, staring blankly at the blackboard, trying to remember the exact tone of honey that was streaked in his hair from the hours spent out in the sun. At her desk arranging papers, Mrs. Flett stared at one of her favorite students, wishing she hadn't heard what she had.

---

Hermione didn't speak for a while.

"You don't like her," she said. It wasn't a question.

"No, I don't." Draco was staring resolutely at the gray walls, the empty white canvases that were waiting for an imaginative author to fill them with life. Occasionally, they'd pass paintings that weren't subject to change with different authors, like the Fat Lady who stood, frozen in a blank canvas.

"It's not her fault," Hermione continued.

"I understand that," Draco replied, frustrated.

"You should take it as a compliment."

"Why?" Draco's voice was harsh, and he glared at Hermione, who wasn't fazed at all by the angry glinting in his sometimes-blue-sometimes-gray eyes.

"Obviously, this author really likes you. This character, Amber, is just a personification of her feelings for you."

"'Personification'?" Draco repeated. "Trust me, Hermione, there is nothing human about that girl. Nothing personal. She's just. . .there."

"So are all of us," Hermione replied flatly.

"Why?" he asked, turning so that he was facing her and blocking her path.

"You know I don't have the answers for everything, Draco."

"But aren't you supposed to?"

"Perhaps." Her answer made him angrier.

"Who are you, Hermione? Who are we? Does anyone here know who they are?"

"Draco, don't make a big deal out of this," Hermione replied calmly, bland of any emotion.

"Isn't it a big deal?" he replied hotly, feeling a strange surge of heat through him. He was so unaccustomed to true anger that it took him a moment to realize he was actually furious.

"Calm down," Hermione murmured, reaching up to stroke his blond hair.

"Stop it," he growled, flinching away.

"You usually like it when I do that," Hermione replied, sounding as though it made no difference to her. After a moment of staring at the wall, her head tilted, she continued walking. Draco decided not to follow. He didn't want to. And that surprised him.


	3. Chapter 3

_He was unable to answer her question for a few moments as he stared at her, his eyes tracing the shimmering highlights through her golden hair, as his mind replayed the few syllables she had spoken in her gentle, silky voice. She was smiling shyly at him._

"_No, this seat isn't taken," he finally replied, surprised at the levelness of his own tone. She slid easily onto the Slytherin table bench, and turned her body so that she wasn't facing Pansy across the table, but was looking at Draco._

"_What was it that you were reading?" she asked, and Draco found it difficult to concentrate as her green eyes locked with his blue._

"_Reading?" he repeated._

"_When I arrived, you were reading. Was it this?" she reached across him to the book he had placed next to his plate._

If she closed her eyes, Heather could imagine the book perfectly; she knew that it was old and yet not worn, that the pages were thick parchment, and the dry, stiffness of the pages made them turn noisily. But what would Amber say next? Heather knew what she would say: nothing. She would have never gone up to a boy like Draco, never had the courage to speak first. Although she didn't consciously realize it, Heather more knew what it was like to be Draco. She could identify more with the fictional wizard in her story than with her friends at school.

_She flipped to the title page, where he had scrawled his name._

"_Draco Malfoy," she read aloud. Draco glanced up at her, his blue ey—_

Heather gasped. Her screen had gone black. She hadn't saved. Not only that, but the lights in her house had also gone out.

"Heather?" Her mother's voice came from somewhere upstairs.

"Yeah, Mom?" she called back.

"Did you lose power down there?"

"Yeah." It was before dinnertime, so the house wasn't completely dark. She heard the grumbling of her mother, who was walking down the stairs.

"I'll call the electric company," her mother offered, as she walked into the kitchen, still complaining to herself.

---

Draco could have laughed. He was partially surprised that Amber could read. He was tempted to pick up the book and see what the author had meant by "scrawled", as he signed his name rather particularly when allowed to, but the book had vanished.

"Draco Malfoy," Amber echoed herself, smiling perfectly at him.

"Yeah. Draco Malfoy." It was ridiculous, the only conversation they could have.

Like some parrot, the girl cocked her head and smiled. Draco amused himself momentarily with the image of her in a cage, repeating her own words endlessly.

The Gryffindors had come over.

"Hey, where's Ginny?" Draco wondered aloud.

"She's not in this one," replied Ron, his tone indifferent as he seated himself across from Amber.

"Well, where'd she go?" wondered Draco. Hermione shrugged.

"The author must've forgotten about her," Harry replied. "Don't worry, I'm sure she'll be back for the next one."

They didn't understand. Draco was stuck with them in his twisted purgatory for more than ten years and they still didn't understand him. If there was one thing that any of the fanfiction writers had consistently gotten right, it was how misunderstood he felt.

Suddenly, the entire castle shuddered.

"What was that?" asked Draco. Ron hadn't noticed; he was staring at Amber, so he had an excuse. Harry was tracing the outlines on his fist, "I must not tell lies", and glanced up at Draco's voice. Hermione didn't move.

"The computer," she replied, making as much sense as much of the plot in the latest fanfic.

"What about the computer?" prompted Draco. Would no one speak to him in coherent sentences?

"It must have lost power somehow. The author was mid-word, the narration just stopped; I suppose the computer was either turned off improperly or she accidentally exited."

"And you assume the former because. . .?"

"The surge of electricity. Most likely, she forgot to unplug."

Around them, the students began to fade back in and the torches began to turn back on; and once again the suddenly flickered back out of existence.

"Strange," Hermione murmured. "The author should know better."

The flickering of light and the random jolts of movement continued for another second; finally, the fanfiction world of Heather solidified, and Draco found himself once again forced to pretend that he was seated at a table of friends, and only sixteen once more, and that he was actually in love with the shell-like parrot next to him.

---

Heather stared at the screen in disbelief. It had truly deleted all her past work. She had been somehow hoping it would have saved, but there it was, her story, barely a page long. She glanced over it, sighed, replaced her fingers on the keys, and began to retype her story.

_The appearance of Heather at Hogwarts changed the atmosphere of the Great Hall. When he glanced up and found that she was gone from the teachers' table, Draco quickly scanned the hall to see where she had gone._

_He felt a sinking feeling as he discovered where she had seated herself – at the Gryffindor table. As she spoke to Ron and Harry, he felt his jaw clench not only with the fury he was accustomed to feeling towards Harry, but also a sudden wave of jealousy that surprised him greatly._

Heather smiled sadly, wishing that she could be Amber for what felt like the millionth time in her life.

---

When Heather shut off her computer, Draco was surprised to see that Dumbledore left the other two teachers at the high table and strode out of the cold, dark, ghostly-empty Great Hall. Curious, he carefully got up from the bench.

It was a slight blessing that the story had been re-written; now, Ron and Harry were carrying on a conversation with Amber, as much as they could at least, and Draco was relatively free to sneak off after the Headmaster.

"Where are you going?" asked Hermione. Draco jumped; he hadn't heard her follow him.

"Common room," he lied quickly.

"You can get into yours when Hogwarts isn't awake?" she asked, sounding genuinely interested.

"Uhh, yeah," he replied, hurrying to catch up to Dumbledore.

"Hmm, maybe we just can't because the Fat Lady counts as a person. . ." Hermione mused aloud.

"Uh-hu," Draco replied. "Where are you headed?" he asked, hoping to distract her.

"Me?" asked Hermione. She stopped. "No where. Here is fine."

"Alright," Draco replied, as Hermione stopped to stare at the blank portrait.

"I wonder what this one was," she replied. "I suppose it doesn't matter now." She laughed sadly. "Tomorrow it'll probably be someone different."

She sounded genuinely sad. Draco glanced at her.

"I have to go," he replied slowly, "but I'll come back this way if you want to talk."

"That's alright." She smiled at him with a brightness he assumed to be false. He couldn't tell if it was just an act, or if she could truly change her emotions so quickly. "I rather like looking at blank canvases. They have so much potential."

"But they've already been painted on," Draco replied. He knew he should be catching up to Dumbledore, but, like always, Hermione's words were more than they seemed.

"Technically," Hermione allowed, still staring at the empty painting. "But to me, they just look like they could be anything."

Since he couldn't think of anything to say to that, Draco turned and followed the path he assumed that Dumbledore had gone.

He found the wizard standing in his office (the gargoyle had been frozen, luckily, with the passageway open).

A broken mirror stood in front of the oddly-empty desk. The only times Draco had been in the Headmaster's office had been during the times where Hogwarts was, as Hermione put it, "awake". Now, the desk was without the trinkets and shiny objects. The previous Headmasters' and -mistress's pictures of the walls were unmoving and unalive.

"Strange how much a little thunderstorm can do," Dumbledore mused aloud.

"Professor?" asked Draco, out of habit. He wasn't quite sure how to address the Headmaster when he wasn't truly a Headmaster, devoid of his pupils and much of his staff.

"The thunderstorm, that knocked poor Heather's power out, broke the Mirror of Erised."

Draco stepped closer to the mirror. Shards of the glass had fallen away from the frame, but he couldn't see the wood backing between the remaining pieces of glass.

"What did you call it?" he asked, staring inquisitively at the strange, dark shapes he could see between the shiny bits that were not reflecting him.

"Mirror of Erised," Dumledore replied, sounding distracted. "It shows your deepest desire. A pity it's broken; it was a good plot tool."

But Draco wasn't paying attention to Dumbledore's comments; he reached out towards the mirror. His fingers made contact with the coolness of the remaining parts of the mirror, but left no reflection. As he slid them along, seemingly invisible, he found himself reaching out only into air. Startled, he pulled back his hand. Between the mirror, there was emptiness; and yet, from the other side of the mirror, he could clearly see that there was a wooden backing.

The enigma, however, would have to wait for a later date.

"Come, Draco," Dumbledore murmured. "I do believe that someone else is beginning a story tonight, and it'd be a pity if we weren't there to act our parts in their strange play."


	4. Chapter 4

Heather's next day seemed to all focus on seventh bell. It seemed that the first six bells of the day were weak introductions, paling at what was to come. Heather knew that when that second bell rang she would be seated across from Louis Christianson. All through lunch, as she sat quietly in the lunchroom, staring out the window at the dreary day, she let her mind wander. And when it came to her English class, she was waiting, expectant. Her hands were interlocked on the front of her desk, like a young student in a classic film, her back straight, her ankles crossed. She sat, the perfect image of studiousness, waiting for Louis. Of course, when he came, he sat with his two friends, already swept up in a conversation that Heather was not a part of. But she listened. Not so much to the words, but to the warm tone of his voice, and took note of the casual way in which he swept his brown hair so that it brushed his eyelashes. And when the second bell rang, calling the class to order, he turned his brown eyes to her.

"Heather." He spoke his name. Her heart thudded uncomfortably, her fingers nervously sliding in their own grip. And she didn't understand. She couldn't understand that when he lowered his head down a few inches so his eyes were level with hers it was simply to make her breath catch in her throat. For all her artist's eye and quick-working mind, Heather was unable to recognize the flirtatious manner as an act. And it wasn't because Louis was overly cunning or seductive; it was because she didn't want to.

As she sat, staring dumbly at the jock before her, she could only note the cocky half-smirk that played across his face as he slid the outline over the facing desks toward her.

"Here's the outline. It's due at the end of class."

"Oh." She had somehow recovered her voice. She reached out hesitantly to take the paper, and when she looked up he had turned back to his friends and was talking. Ignoring her.

"Uhm, Louis," she tried hesitantly, and when he glanced up at her, she found that her eyes were suddenly glued to the worksheet in front of her.

"This is a group project," she reminded him quietly. The cocky grin on his face seemed a bit fixed.

"But your ideas are so much better than ours, Heather," Brad replied.

"Couldn't you just help us out?" asked Mark.

"You told me you would," Louis replied, and Heather found that she could no longer look away from his eyes, not now that they held such accusation.

"I–I," Heather stuttered, for once unable to use her words.

"You only have thirty minutes left," Louis reminded her.

"You should get working," added Brad.

"Yeah," Mark told her with a sarcastic smile, "you wouldn't want us to get a bad grade because of your sloppy work, would you, Heather?"

And from her desk, Mrs. Flett glanced up and watched angrily as Heather slid the paper onto her desk and bent over the paper, furiously writing.

At the end of the bell, Louis and his friends walked out. Mrs. Flett watched them go, her eyes narrowed, but she didn't move from her desk. A few moments later, the classroom was empty except for one student. Heath quickly scribbled a final note at the bottom of the page and, hastily stuffing her books in her messenger back and slinging it over one shoulder, she walked to the front of the room.

"Here, Mrs. Flett," she murmured, handing her English teacher the paper. Mrs. Flett looked at the paper. Unlike most papers from Heather, the writing was dark and smudged, as though the pencil had been pressed onto the paper as hard as it could. The thick lines had been smudged, the excess pencil lead marking the margins and the side of Heather's hand. Most alarming, however, was a cluster of damp spots at the bottom of the page, as though the writer had been crying.

Mrs. Flett couldn't see Heather's face, as the girl had let her honey-blond hair down, and it fell, like a sheet, covering her face.

"Heather," she began, her tone careful and warning.

"I'm sorry it's so messy, Mrs. Flett." Heather spoke quietly, but her voice was even. "I hope you can figure it out. I think I did."

--

Heather sat in front of the computer screen as she had for several nights, the white glow of the screen the only light in the dark family room. The laptop had been on for a while; the heat was becoming almost unbearable, making her legs burn under her jeans. After a while, she sighed, and began typing.

_The scratching noise abruptly ceased, after a sudden harsh noise. For the fourth time, Draco's quill had snapped, the feather breaking down the middle in his large, strong hand. His parchment was flecked with ink from his frustration, and the multiple cross-outs and inkblots made his essay a disgrace._

"_Here," a gentle voice murmured. He look up, and Amber was leaning toward him, a quill held carefully in her hands._

"_Thank you," he replied, and she smiled at the gratitude apparent in his voice._

"_Had a hard day?" she asked sweetly, as she slid comfortably into the chair beside him. Their location, in the library, necessitated whispers, and therefore she leaned in close to him, close enough so as to smell the cologne that he wore and feel his warm breath on her face when he replied._

"_You have no idea."_

"_Me too," she whispered, and he was surprised to see her perfect eyes glisten with tears. It hadn't occurred to him that he wasn't the only person in the world. He hadn't realize that maybe other people have feelings._

"_I'm sorry to hear that," he replied, and instinctively reached out to hug her to him. She nestled against his strong chest —_

In an angry gesture, Heather shut the laptop. She knew that there was a chance that her work wouldn't save. She understood that. But she couldn't stand to continue writing, not when she realized that it was too similar. That every moment Draco opened his lips to speak, she saw Louis Christianson, and the flirtatious habit of his of running his hands through his hair and looking her in the eye when he spoke just so he would make her nervous. And it was ridiculous that his callousness, his blatant manipulation of her, his insensitivity, should make her want him more. He was Draco Malfoy, except he played basketball, and wore his warm-ups to school and listened to hip-hop and rap.

As Heather sat in her family room, her legs curled under her on the old couch, she made a thousand excuses why she shouldn't confront Louis. For a moment, she lived a thousand scenarios, each proving to herself that Louis was sincere and truly cared for her. Part of her clung to the idea that this was her fault, as it was she that had promised to help him out. It had seemed only fair at the time; he had basketball, the team needed him. And by doing the project, wasn't she just helping him help the team?

The rest of the house was dark and silent. It comfortably was home to Heather's fantasies, as her mind whirred in a desperate attempt to make sense of that day's events and still keep Louis Christianson as the hero to her story. As narrator to her life, Heather tried to create a scene in which Louis explained his motivation, a true, earnest motivation. The need of basketball practice. That, beneath his cocky exterior, he was gentle and fragile. That, when he left the room, he would turn to his friends and exclaim over having spoken to her. That having to make her finish the project hurt him just as much as it hurt him. In this version, she could still write herself a happy ending, involving the two of them together, when they could explain how misunderstood and alone they had both felt. As much as her mind rejected the fact that Louis could ever want her, as inferior and unpopular as she felt, she wished desperately, that once, just once, he would see her as she saw him: perfect, desirable, and beautiful.


	5. Chapter 5

As soon as Heather had snapped the lid of her laptop closed, the torches in the library went out. Madam Pince, half-way through chiding a group of third years, froze, her face suddenly blank, and faded out of view like a strange ghost. The other students and a few books and portraits similarly froze and vanished. Draco wasn't even amused anymore by the books that had been caught in time, suspended in the air from when the nerdy-looking second year had dropped them. Luckily, it was daytime, so it wasn't completely dark.

Unluckily for Draco, Heather's file saved. When he was accustomed to the new atmosphere, he looked down belatedly to realize that Amber was snuggling against him, her perfect hair somehow remaining eerily formed, as though it was made of plastic – or had been hairsprayed to the point of being a fire hazard. For a moment, Draco regretted the fact that all the torches were unlit...

However, as he shifted to look uncomfortably down at her barbie-doll head, she looked up at him, tilting her head upwards as she molded her body closer to his. She ran her perfect, unshiny, air-brushed-looking nose against his chin.

"Mmm," she murmured. "You _do_ smell good."

Draco was saved from trying to find an answer to that; he heard a call of, "Hey Amber!" as Harry and Ron came into view from behind the bookshelf. Draco rolled his eyes. Of course they wouldn't be far away.

"So, Amber, what's wrong?" asked Harry genially, sitting down next to Amber on the couch and running a hand across her shoulders comfortingly. When his hand brushed Draco's, he glanced at the blonde boy. Draco scowled and wrenched his hand away. He hated any sort of contact with Harry, and avoided it when possible. Shrugging, Harry turned his attention back to the girl, who, for once, was not staring adoringly at Draco.

"Wrong?" she echoed.

"Yeah," Ron replied, inching over inconspicuously, or as inconspicuously as Ron Weasley could manage. Draco happily stood quickly, allowing Ron to slide with what he thought was "smoothness" into the seat. He looked pleased with himself as he placed his hand on Amber's other shoulder.

"Your perfect eyes were sparkling with unshed tears."

Draco, standing off to the side, rolled his eyes. It hadn't been that great when the author had said it; Ron's voice just made it sound pathetic, although he obviously thought himself quite poetic.

Amber cocked her head. "Nothing's wrong. Draco was comforting me."

Draco raised an eyebrow. Had she just spoken coherently? With words not fed directly to her?

"Then why were you crying?" he asked harshly, his angry tone masking his secret, desperate hope that she would respond with something original. Maybe – just maybe – things were as horrible as he had thought.

"I wasn't."

"Wasn't what?" he snapped, trying hard to fight his annoyance. Stories always said he had a temper, which perhaps was right – no one, though, understood the that it was the constant narration, echoing in his head, that made him frequently short-tempered. Except Harry. Harry just pissed him off.

"I wasn't crying," she replied sweetly. Draco was watching her, his eyes suddenly careful. He couldn't let her know the wild hope that was making his heart pound loudly, as he watched her perfect green eyes meet his. She smiled at his attention and continued, "My perfect eyes were glistening with tears. It's okay, though – you've noticed that other people have feelings..."

She trailed off, smiling, as though not realizing that her comment was double sided, and hurt him just as much as it was meant to compliment, with the implication that he had been rude and selfish before.

Draco didn't even realize he was clutching the back of a wooden library chair until the wood snapped in his furious grip. He didn't even register the sharp pain he felt as the rough edge was thrust by his own anger into his palm.

"Draco," Hermione called behind him, emerging from the same area Harry and Ron had come. "Put that down before you hurt yourself."

Looking down, Draco saw the broken wood buried in his hand, and felt a fresh wave of anger that made him clench his jaw in an effort not to lash out at Hermione.

"_Before_ I hurt myself?" he asked, his voice deadly calm and icy.

Hermione didn't answer, but walked over and gently removed the wood from his hand. He couldn't move; it was as though his anger was paralyzing him. To his surprise, the ugly, raw, red gash on his hand drew together and was gone; it healed instantly. Hermione replaced the four-inch piece of wood in its former place, and the chair itself healed. None of the damage remained. Nothing remained to calm his anger. He had accomplished nothing.

For a long moment, Draco stared at his hand. Hermione, realizing that he was angry, let go of her gentle grip on him.

From her gentle brown eyes, Draco saw that she wasn't afraid of his anger.

"There's something wrong with you," she murmured, and stepped back. "Why don't you go for a walk, so you can get over it? Get back to the way you were?"

"You mean, stop feeling anything?" he growled back. She didn't flinch at his tone.

"I suppose so. It's much easier that way. Harry, Ron, and I have survived much longer like this."

Draco didn't want to acknowledge the truth in that; that he was involved in far less fanfics than the so-called "Golden Trio".

"You see now?" she asked when he paused, seething. "You can heal and go back to normal, just like that chair." She indicated the now-perfect wooden back with a casual wave of her hand.

"There's one difference between me and that chair, Hermione," he replied, his grey and/or blue eyes sparkling with deadly anger. "I'm alive. Or I should be."

And with that said, he spun and marched out the library.

"Is this a drama?" asked Ron casually, from the couch. "Only dialogue? I haven't heard any narration..."

"No, Ron," Hermione replied patiently, soothingly. She slid behind him on the couch and accepted his hand, not seeming to care that his other was wrapped around Amber's waist.

"Oh," replied Ron, the truth dawning on him. But he didn't seem to care that he couldn't tell between reality and fanfiction; he shrugged. The silence that followed was not comfortable or uncomfortable; it was simply a lack of words, and a lack of expressions, and a lack of emotions.

---

Draco was half-way up the stairs to Dumbledore's office when he paused, unsure of what he was doing. He knew that the Mirror of Erised was more than it seemed. If before, the mirror had reflected what he wanted, what would an archway do? Normal mirrors reflect, so did the Mirror; but archways mark entrances; was it possible that the frame had become some sort of portal?

Still, he paused at the entrance to Dumbledore's office.

"Come in, Mr. Malfoy," came a calm voice. His anger had been replaced by curiosity, but the adrenalin rush remained; he opened the door, ready to rush for the mirror and leap through.

Seeing his student's position, not unlike a runner before an Olympic Race, Dumbledore looked down his nose at Draco and murmured, "Be my guest, Mr. Malfoy."

Surprised, Draco straightened out of his half-crouch.

"Sir?" he replied, trying his best to keep his derision out of his voice at using the respectful term, his anger resurfacing. Couldn't Dumbledore _ever_ exhibit emotions? Except, of course, in that final fanfic by that Rowling woman...

"I would go through myself, but I cannot abandon this school. It is usually mine..." His blue eyes twinkled with amusement. He alone did not mind when he was killed off in fanfics; it seemed to amuse him, especially all the ways he was brought back.

"To where?" asked Draco bluntly, not bothering to address the man courteously.

"Manners, Mr. Malfoy," replied the sometimes-Headmaster. His tone was serious, but his eyes continued to twinkle. Draco didn't reply, but stared angrily at the floor, fighting and angry response that would make an enemy of Dumbledore. He needed this information.

Slowly and deliberately, the old man neared the mirror and removed a single shard of glass. With a sound like falling china, the rest of the pieces fell, revealing a shadow, insubstantial arch-shaped blotch of darkness. Dumbledore reached in, a pulled out an object.

"Look," he instructed his pupil. "A sock!" he crowed, showing the object to Draco. Draco looked at it. The toe was ripped. A strange purplish stain was on the sole, and the top part was fraying. The pattern on it, of a frog catching a fly, was immature and silly.

"It's a sock," he replied, his face condescending.

"Yes!" replied Dumbledore. Draco shook his head. Sometimes, the Headmaster was just insane. And sometimes – gasp! – he was _gay_.

"This sock," Dumbledore continued, "is not like any other sock. Why is that?" Draco would have rather liked to snap that Dumbledore had no right to try and teach him, but he knew that he would have to play along.

"It's childlike and dirty?" he replied, his face twisted in a sneer. When he realized that Dumbledore was watching him patiently, he rearranged his expression to something more polite and added on a hasty, "Sir" at the end.

"Precisely! This sock is not from our world."

"Then where is it from?" asked Draco, with true interest.

"That I cannot say," replied Dumbledore. He returned to his desk, gathered up a stack of books (where had they come from? Draco wondered) and began walking towards the door.

"I am going to be away for a while," replied Dumbledore. "Knitting patterns fascinate me." When Draco stared dumbly after him, he continued, "I really should not allow anyone to pass through that doorway, but I suppose I cannot be expected to wait around all day guarding it."

When Draco stood completely still and stared, the sometimes-Headmaster winked at him and began walking down the stairs, whistling.

The burst of adrenalin was pulsing through his veins faster than ever as he eyed the doorway, then the was-mirror of Erised. Hesitantly, he put a hand through, then quickly withdrew it. Around him, he noticed that the trinkets that were usually on the Headmaster's desk were beginning to appear.

If he was to leave, he would have to do so while Dumbledore was gone, and while Hogwarts was not being controlled by some overly-obsessed fan. This would be his only chance. Without thinking, he pushed himself through the archway.

The barrier gave almost no resistence, and he had given no thought to where he would go. As he hurtled forward, through about thirteen years and across an ocean and assorted other land, he suddenly felt his feet hit the ground, but they got no traction before his head hit something wooden and hard, knocking him off his feet. As he slipped out of consciousness he vaguely registered the sharp pointiness of a stiletto heel pushing against his nose.


	6. Chapter 6

The first conscious thought that Draco Malfoy had was where he was. Although he was disoriented, there was something distinctly different about the place he had appeared – whether it was the dimness, with only slivers of golden light framing a doorway, or the muffled noise of air conditioning cycling on somewhere above him, or the stifling feeling of breathing in dust. He rubbed his sore head, and took a deep breath.

And then he heard it – the all-too familiar voice of a narrator.

"Christie!" the voice trumpeted with false enthusiasm. "How are you?" There was a pause. "The flu? That sucks!" From his sitting position, Draco pressed his ear to the door, listening to see what the narrator was plotting. "So what's up?" He heard the shuffling of papers. "Oh, so you need the homework..." The brightness was gone from the tone, but the voice confirmed his worst dread – he was still stuck at Hogwarts; the was-mirror hadn't done anything but knock him unconscious. His head didn't even throb that much anymore.

As he struggled to sit up, pushing himself up with his hands, his right hand wrapped around a thin piece of cloth. He lifted it to his face, and after examining it in the dim light, he grinned. Standing, he held the sock in his hand, a talisman, not caring that the sole was grimy or that there was a rip in the ankle. For when he inspected the sock, he recognized the lop-sided grin of the frog from the sock's partner he had seen in Dumbledore's office.

However, the grin faded. Was this some twisted, strange fanfic? He could still hear the author talking; had this Christie character replacing Amber? He shuddered again, imagining a worse, more insipid character come to replace the plastic, living Barbie-doll.

"_And_ Alegbra homework?" repeated the author. "I'll go check my assignment book. – Oh, I think I left it in the kitchen. One sec."

Draco listened carefully; over the gentle whistling of the air conditioning he could hear a door open, and then close. As he stood awkwardly in the closet, unsure if he should wait for narration or try and find his location, Draco suddenly realized that he had taken enough. He no longer cared about authors and their silly stories.

The sudden explosion of anger gave him strength to throw open the door and stride fearlessly into the room.

And then he froze.

The room was pale pink, with sheer white curtains undulating by the open window, the rosebud embroidery catching his eye. A pair of jeans and a pink t-shirt were draped across a simple, wooden chair, in front of a desk scattered with papers. A small white lamp with a green lampshade was turned on and lit the papers on the desk. A steady clicking noise made him look up; a fan whirled above his head, swinging unevenly. There was a gentle scent of lavender in the room. The carpet on the floor was violet, and seemed dulled by too-many vacuumings. As his eyes swept from the desk, across the carpeting, they came to rest on the iron frame of a bed. Draco trailed his hand across its unmade surface, his hand catching in the thick folds of the rose-pink comforter. He reached for a stuffed pink bear, which sat atop the pile of pillows. The fur was matted, the once-white paws dull with dirt and age. But the black eyes twinkled comfortingly in the light from the fixture that hung from the ceiling fan.

And although he was bombarded by the details – the subtle scent of laundry detergent that lingered on the bed sheets, and the laundry basket in the corner filled with mis-matched socks – Draco was most interested in a book.

On the bed, with a pencil jammed between Chapters 13 and 14, sat Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.

For a moment, his hand hovered over the cover. The soothing whooshing of the air conditioning had stopped, and he felt exposed by the sudden silence. For that moment he was undecided.

"Okay, glad I could help!" a voice chirruped from across the bed. After a sudden worried glance, Draco realized that whoever had been talking on the phone had neglected to hang up.

"Thanks, Heather," came a tired voice.

"Anytime, Christie!" replied the author's voice.

"Heather," Draco murmured, scowling. Of course he knew the name. He could still hear the prideful voice: "Amber and Emeralds, a fanfic by Heather Westerton. Chapter 1, Page 1. _There was something calming about being alone. With nothing..."_

The sudden awe he had felt at investigating his new whereabouts was forgotten; in a rush he remember the indignation and fury that he had felt.

"I'm alive," he repeated slowly. His hand reached for the book. "Or should be," he breathed as his fingers brushed the cover.

He slowly seated himself on the bed, trying to ignore the creaking of the old bedsprings. Not bothering to kick off his shoes, he reclined, arranging the squashy pillows behind his neck and against the wall to comfortably cushion him. The pink teddy bear he placed in the crook of his arm.

Slowly, barely daring to breathe, he opened the book and began reading.

"Chapter 1," he read, "Dudley Demeted..."

Try as he might, as the words formed in his mind, it was not Joanne Rowling's voice that spoke them, but his own. Visions of the Dursleys and their home were his own, unable to match those he had seen in other fanfics.

He had barely finished the Chapter 1 when he suddenly heard Heather's voice. Only it no longer came from the phone on the bedside table.

--

Heather drummed her fingers across the keys impatiently.

_Draco Malfoy was not in classes that day._

The cursor continued blinking. She deleted, and began typing, shaking her head. The story refused to go in the direction she had planned. Sighing, she tried a new approach.

_Amber wondered if Draco was sick; she watched the Slytherin table carefully, but did not see the bright flash of blond hair that would mark his entrance._

This, too, she deleted. Heather thought for a moment, biting her lip impatiently.

_It was dark. The musty smell of last year's winter clothing and the leathery scent of new high heels filled Draco's nose. His eyes strained to adjust to the dim light, as he pushed himself to stand upright. The shiny black of his shoe jutted into a sliver of golden light that was emanating from the doorframe before him. In his hand he clutched a keepsake, a dirty, frog-patterned sock..._

—

Draco could no longer pay attention to novel in his hands. He groaned. Heather was catching up. And when she did, would he once again be forced to return to his purgatory of the fanfiction universe?

--

_And although Draco enjoyed the empowering feeling of holding that book – all of Harry Potter's secrets, all of his thoughts, everything that made him The Boy Who Lived and every detail of his character that made Draco hate him, he found that his eyes couldn't focus on the print. He couldn't process the words._

_--_

"Because of your damn narrating," growled Draco, vainly trying to continue reading.

--

_Finally, the confusing whirl in his mind, over the thoughts of Amber..._

_--_

True, they were thoughts, Draco acknowledged. But not positive ones – that would be stretching the truth. If Heather dared to say, "romantic" she would be lying.

--

_He couldn't focus._

--

Draco had taken enough. He drew his wand from his pocket

_and performed the difficult spell he had learned by eavesdropping on Hermione Granger. Instantly, a cell phone materialized in his hands._

Grabbing the cordless phone that Heather had forgotten to hang up, Draco quickly found, on the back, the number of Heather's house.

_He dialed frantically, his fingers flying across the keys. In his haste, he dialed a few wrong keys, and had to hang up and start over, cursing himself for the mistakes._

_The phone rang._

Heather stopped.

"Hey, mom, could you answer that?" she called across the house.

_The phone rang again._

"Mo-om!" she called. "Hey, mom--" And suddenly she broke off. Something was strange – the caller must have hung up: the tones were too far apart.

--

"C'mon," urged Draco quietly. "Don't chose now to stop narrating."

--

Slowly, Heather replaced her fingers on the keys.

_The phone rang again._

This time, she leapt up and ran to the phone.

"Hello?" she asked breathless.

"Hello Heather," a perfect, polished voice answered. She caught the tinge of British accent that made her heart flutter.

"I think we should talk," the voice continued.

"Who is this?" she asked breathlessly. "Is this some sort of joke?"

"Marco," the voice said, and then the line went dead.

Heather stared at the cordless phone in her hands for a moment, and then, doubting her own sanity, called, "Polo?"

She began walking towards the staircase, calling, "Polo?"

"Marco," came a male voice above her head. She drifted up the staircase as though in a dream.

When she reached her bedroom door, she paused, tentative.

"Marco," came a voice from within.

She pushed open the door to reveal Draco Malfoy, sprawled comfortably across her bed.


	7. Chapter 7

She had been staring at him for too long. The steady clicking of the childish Mickey Mouse clock on her bedside table marked the seconds, but they were too many to count. Her widened gray eyes took in everything of his appearance; his polished black shoes resting on her comforter, the small teddy bear tucked under his arm, the Slytherin tie in a perfect knot around his neck, the glimmering of a signet ring on his right pointer finger...

There was no denying it. Draco Malfoy, wearing his Hogwarts uniform and infamous naughty smirk was on her bed. It took her several moments to realize that she had forgotten how to breathe. He was watching her; the grin had faded and he was instead raising an eyebrow and waiting for her to speak. However, it soon became apparent that Heather Westerton was beyond words.

"Strange," he murmured, his smooth voice making Heather visibly jump, "you're usually so loquacious when you're controlling _my _mind. But when it's yours..." He trailed off, watching her, his expression slightly disgusted. He sighed, and began toying with the floppy ear of a pink rabbit with two button eyes. The steady whirring of the air conditioning, the ticking of the uneven ceiling fan, and the clicking of the second hand filled the silence.

"Controlling?" Heather breathed. Draco sighed.

"So, it does speak," he muttered to himself.

"But controlling?" Heather was still staring at him, her gray eyes widened, doe-like and frightened. She fell backwards into her desk chair (as far away from him as the small room would permit) without realizing it.

"Yes, Miss Westerton," Draco replied, locking eyes with her. She shuddered slightly at hearing her name spoken by his voice. "Controlling."

He suddenly jumped up and began pacing, and she stared at him, unable to comprehend Draco Malfoy in her bedroom.

"Imagine a voice – you're voice – well, not..." He trailed off, unable to explain. Suddenly he was kneeling, his eyes level with hers. She was frightened by his bright-eyed passion, his sudden intensity.

"Every minute," he whispered. She could feel his breath on her face. "Every second, every action, a little voice, in your ear."

She swallowed, and as she stared into his eyes (which we blue at the moment) she could almost see the wheels and cogs of his mind turning furiously.

"You hear my voice," she responded dumbly, her voice barely a whisper.

"Yes." His face was scant inches from hers. "Narrating."

It was undeniable that he was angry now, color rising in his usually-pale cheeks, his knuckles white from clutching the arms of her desk chair.

"Narrating," she repeated faintly.

"Yes," he growled.

"Excuse me," she murmured in a dream-like voice. She stood, gently brushing him aside. He scowled and stood, staring at her as she slowly made her way to the doorway and left her room. After a few moments, he heard the water of the shower turn on; grumbling angrily to himself, he returned to the bed.

"She'll believe me," he promised the rose-colored bunny. As the snuggled into the pillows, he opened the book once more and continued reading.

—

When the door opened, he glanced up from mid-way through the book (he was rather interested in the whole "Dumbledore's Army" thing, and why Ron and Hermione had not yet started making out during a meeting, as they would in a normal fanfic) to see Heather emerge from her the door, wrapped in faded yellow towel.

"Nice shower?" he asked, working hard to keep the anger from his voice and speak politely. The girl paled.

"You're still here," she muttered, looking terrified.

"Yes," he replied, shutting the book and sitting up. He raised an eyebrow. "What did you expect – that I'd _go back?"_ He spat the last words out angrily, making her jump.

"To Hogwarts," she finished.

"To hell is more apt description," he snarled. After realizing her fear, he clenched his jaw, and stood slowly, holding his arms out to calm her like a criminal approaching authorities.

"You don't understand," he said, carefully choosing his words as he walked towards her slowly. Heather blinked twice, grabbed a pair of pajamas, and went back out the door. Draco sighed angrily, clenching his strong hands into fists until the fingers turned white.

Realizing it was 11:30, he sat down in the desk chair. Heather returned, refused to look at him or acknowledge his presence, and climbed into bed. She balled up on her side, her back to him, as though refusing to face him even in her sleep.

Watching her sleep, Draco forgot his anger. Although he was furious at this girl for narrating his life, he had to look at the situation rationally. She couldn't be expected to shoulder the blame and anger he had stored up from all the authors ever. Hermione had said that he should take her narrating as a compliment. Once he had wished: "_If only those stupid fanfiction writers could see them then; nothing peculiar, no magic, no drama." _And as Heather slept, she was just that; normal, naive, and alone.

Draco slowly closed his eyes in acceptance, and pulled the covers up to cover Heather's ear, patting her kindly. Taking a spare pillow that had somehow ended up on the floor, he curled up in the desk chair and fell asleep, tired for once.

--

Heather had been sure that she was dreaming, but when she woke up in the morning to her alarm clock, she saw that Draco Malfoy was still in her room. He looked as though he, too, had just woken up; his blonde hair stuck up and he was slowly patting it as he yawned.

"G'morning," he murmured. She sat bolt-upright in bed. He sighed.

"You still don't believe I'm real?" he asked disappointedly. "Look, I came out of your story. Through your closet." He gestured at the open door. Sure enough, when Heather looked through, she noticed that there was something strange; the whole back wall looked like a mirror.

"Mirror of Erised," he muttered. "Hey, it's fixed," he realized belatedly, and then shrugged.

Heather stared at him for a moment, and scrambled to the bathroom. When she returned, she was dressed for school, and carried a bunch of clothes.

"These are my brother's," she said, chucking the pile at Draco's head. He caught them deftly – but after all, he was a Seeker.

"Thanks," he said, glaring at her lack of politeness. She glared back, angry.

"I'm insane," she muttered. "I"m angry with a fictional character."

"Yeah, yeah," muttered Draco, waving impatiently at her Muggle need to ignore magic as he ambled off towards the bathroom.

--

He returned fifteen minutes later, wearing the t-shirt and jeans and an incredulous expression.

"What now?" asked Heather. Luckily she had breakfasted and gotten all ready for school in the time it took Draco to shower.

"I don't like your shower," he replied darkly.

"What's wrong with it?" asked Heather worriedly, forgetting, in her concern, that she was supposed to be angry at him for making her schizophrenic.

"I dunno," Draco replied, unable to find the right words to describe his discomfort. "It's all... hot... and... uncomfortable. And the towel wasn't... towel-y." Heather stared at him for a moment.

"Have you ever showered before?" she asked. Draco stared back.

"Of course I have!" he replied quickly, angry at her for even imagining such a thing as possible. And then he thought. True, some of the more-creative, more-adult fanfics had included showers, but he had never truly had a fanfiction writer sit down and describe him washing behind his ears with grapefruit-scented soap. Heather didn't buy his answer, so he shrugged in defeat.

"Okay, not really."

"Oh, Mr. Malfoy," she giggled, "you have so much to learn."

He wasn't sure if he should feel insulted by that comment, so he walked to the door, prepared to follow her to the bus stop.

When he reached the door and she was still giggling, he turned and asked, "Are you coming?"

"What," she replied, "to watch you go to school for the first time? Of course, I wouldn't miss it for the world."

And shy little Heather Westerton offered Draco Malfoy a saucy grin and headed for what was to be the most interesting – and education – day at school ever.


	8. Chapter 8

"This is so boring..."

He was doodling loops all over the three-hole college-ruled paper she had given him, and dropped his eyes from Mr. Gregors (who was enthusiastically quoting Voltaire) to look at Heather. She had to disagree.

For the past three bells she had been watching him, staring at the way his broad shoulders tugged at her brother's gray t-shirt, the strangeness of the visitors' badge clipped over his heart, watching the florescent lights glint off his golden hair, staring in awe at the way he filled the small doorways as she showed him through her school.

"I'm sorry I'm not entertaining you, Mr. Malfoy," she murmured back. He raised an eyebrow.

"I'm having a bad influence on you, aren't I?" he asked, his British accent sounding glorious to her ears. A pink flush raced across her cheeks. She would never get used to him, not if he stayed forever.

"What would give you that impression?" she replied.

"You don't seem to be the type to talk in class," he responded. His expression became slightly ironic and focused on something over her shoulder. "And Mr. Gregors just asked you a question."

Heather turned red. Indeed, the entire class was staring at her.

"Didn't he believe that all humans were influenced by their environments, thus all man was a _tabula rasa_?" she replied, answering the question posed, realizing that her history teacher was now discussing John Locke. Mr. Gregors acknowledged her correct answer and continued the lecture.

"How did you do that?" asked Draco, surprised. He was staring at her. Actually staring. Draco Malfoy. Her breath caught in her throat. His eyes were silvery and glinting and gorgeous. She breathed in, then out. It was just Draco. Draco, who had never showered, who had hugged Mr. Bunny and slept on her desk chair.

"Mr. Gregors goes by the chapter," she replied. "He always quizzes us on the bold words, so I just figured..."

She had never had anyone to explain her little secret to. It was strange, sharing it with Draco Malfoy. _Draco Malfoy_.

When the bell rang she didn't notice; she was too busy staring at the way his large, strong hand dwarfed the number two pencil.

"Shall we?" he asked politely and stood. He then had the decency to pull her chair out for her.

"Thank you." She sounded genuinely shocked.

"It's the least I could do," he answered. "I am making you schizophrenic, after all."

"I don't mind," she replied, biting her lip shyly. He grinned.

--

By the time seventh bell rolled around, Heather had completely forgotten the absurdity of the whole situation. She sat down at the square of four desks, smiling and talking to Draco, when Louis Christianson walked into the room.

"Excuse me? Heather Westerton?" Draco was waving a hand in front of her face. Mid-word, she had frozen to watch the entrance of her favorite boy. She blinked, and turned back to him, her face that doe-like surprised look that she had given him just the other night when he had materialized in her room.

"That's him," she whispered.

"Who?" asked Draco scathingly, scowling.

"You!" she replied.

It took a moment to explain so that he could understand. "I based you on him. I mean, I suppose you aren't really... but when it was you, I was thinking of _him_." She said it reverently, like he was a god or something. Draco stared at him incredulously. That wanna-be jock who wore his hair purposely sloppily, who kept rolling his sleeves up to expose his – not that impressive – arms? That fool who walked with forced casualness, nodding his head to acknowledge everyone as though the country were passing to be reviewed? That idiot whose expression seemed to say, "You think I'm hot – and I know it!"? Draco glared.

"He's a jackass."

Heather stared. "No he's not! He's gorgeous."

"Whatever – he's a douchebag."

"Anachronism," Heather replied.

"What?"

"The term douchebag wasn't used in the 90s."

"Whatever." He turned away in his chair, pouting, disgusted. For once, Heather didn't care.

"Hey Heather," Louis called. "About the essay..."

Heather ducked into her backpack, her face burning. Draco was forgotten. He was speaking to her! His very voice made her heartbeat quicken, made the pulse rush through her veins.

Brad glared at Draco.

"That's my chair," he growled. Draco glanced him over, looking unconcerned, eyebrows raised. Brad, Mark, and Louis quickly converged over the paper to write their names in the upper left hand corner.

"Excuse me," Draco interrupted – the words were polite, but his tone was condescending. The three boys turned to look at him, and their faces were smug – three against one, odds they liked.

"Did Heather write that?" he asked. All three boys assumed defensive positions, crossing their arms in a way that said, "Yeah, what's it to you?"

"We had basketball," Mark growled.

"Yeah, she said she would, isn't that right, Heather?" asked Brad.

Heather nodded mutely, her eyes on Louis although he hadn't spoken.

"You got a pen?" asked Mark, scribbling to try to get his pen to work.

"Yeah." Louis handed him one. This, too, did not write anything. Mark attempted a pencil; the tip snapped.

Heather glanced at Draco, looking angry. His hand was in his pocket, clutching his wand, and his lips were moving quickly, silently.

"Here, Louis," she murmured, holding out her pen and simultaneously sliding between Draco and the boys to cut off his line of vision, so he could not maintain the eye contact necessary to perform the hex.

The three boys wrote their names. Mrs. Flett collected the papers, looking disappointed.

–

"I can't believe you!" Draco exclaimed.

"What?" asked Heather. They were walking to art class together,

"That guy is a complete tool."

"Who?"

"Louis what's-his-face."

"Mmmm. Yeah," Heather agreed to him without know to what she was acquiescing. Anytime she heard the name Louis the answer was yes.

"Heather!" Draco grabbed her by her shoulders to try and hold her attention, but she was staring off down the corridor: Louis Christianson, flanked by his basketball goons, was walking past. She seemed to visibly melt, her usually-formal posture weakening as she sighed longingly. Draco strode off in the opposite direction.

For a moment, Heather was conflicted. Should she follow Louis? Maybe fabricate an issue with the paper, which she knew was A+, or should she follow Draco Malfoy? _Draco Malfoy_.

She probably would have stood all day in the hallway, debating, but Draco returned.

"I can't believe you!" he exclaimed.

"What makes you so much better than him?" she inquired, her eyes drifting to watch as Louis disappeared around a corner.

"I don't know," he replied scathingly, "maybe I'm not a jerk?"

"Aren't you?" she asked. He stared at her. True, many writers did view him as horrible – rude, selfish, pessimistic, self-involved...

"They why do _you_ like _me?" _His voice was harsh. She blinked.

"You remind me of him."

"Then why do you like him!?"

She stared at him and crossed her arms. "Because."

"It's ridiculous. What one nice thing has he ever said to you?"

Silence. Heather tightened her arms across her chest, looking betrayed.

"What has he ever done for you?"

Heather bit her lip, looking upwards as tears collected in her eyes.

"What makes you think that he will _ever _in a million years like _you?_"

Heather swallowed.

"And you're worse," she whispered, her voice thick with tears.

She marched off to art class.

–

Heather had planned on using that art class to cry. To wallow in her own feelings of mediocrity and self-disgust. She was half-way to working herself into a true emotional breakdown, tears and all, when she saw Louis walk past the open door of her art class. His strong arm – the same strong arm she had fantasized about for too many sleepless nights – snugly fit around the hips of some other girl. This may have pushed poor Heather over the proverbial cliff, but instead she was strangely calm. The tears she had been summoning for the past five minutes (to drown her feelings in self-pity and promise herself the validity of her own convictions) suddenly evaporated. She blinked, amazed at her own dry-eyed-ness. It suddenly made sense.

Draco was right: Louis Christianson was never going to like her, not in a million years.

–

Draco decided to give her fifteen minutes to cool off. He paced down the hallways, agitation in every line of his perfect figure, in the way he shoved his hands deep into his jeans' pockets, in the way his forehead crumpled in the all-too-familiar scowl. Finally he determined he had given her enough time. Of more import, however, was his own calming: he knew he needed to be level-headed enough to not pursue his own beliefs further. If Heather wanted to frustrate herself further over this jackass, he told himself, then there was nothing even a Malfoy could do.

When he came into the art class and slid onto a stool beside the girl, he stopped himself from opening his own mouth to apologize. Heather Westerton was looking at him differently. It wasn't the lustful, hero-worshiping, puppy-dog eyes she had been giving him for the past day, but rather a grateful look, appraising, of respect. She smiled a tiny smile. And suddenly words weren't necessary.

–

They didn't talk during the rest of the school day; they were silent for the busride back to Heather's house. Draco followed her up to her bedroom awkwardly, and changed back into his clothing. What more was there to do? Heather didn't want him anymore.

He was poised, one hand on the closet door, when Heather stopped him.

"Draco," she murmured. The way she said his name was different. It made him feel sad and happy at the same time, the disconcerting feeling of missing a stair or thinking you missed a stair or wondering if you will miss a stair. Heather didn't want him anymore. Both of him. Wonderful and terrible.

"I have an idea," she continued. He nodded, unable to speak.

--

Heather sat down at the computer as Draco stepped cautiously back through the closet and the mirror. When he saw what was on the other side, he fought the instinct to turn around and flee back towards Heather's room.

_The hallway was still charred with the remnants of the tragic fiendfyre_, wrote Heather_. _

Draco looked around, confused. He tried to get his bearings –

_and coughed, as he scanned the hallway, his silvery eyes bright in his ashen face. He couldn't breathe the air. He barely felt his head swirl without the oxygen he needed. He didn't even realize his knees buckled beneath him until –_

Draco trusted her. He let himself fall to the stone to Heather's voice.

_Suddenly he felt gentle hands turning his face to clean air._

"_Are you alright?" came a melodious voice._

"_Yeah," he managed to cough out._

"_I'm Astoria Greengrass," the gentle, beautiful voice continued. "Don't worry. I'll take care of you."_

--

_Epilogue_ – _Nineteen Years Later_

_It was as if no time had passed. There was the Hogwarts Express, the same scarlet engine wreathed in smoke. But so much had changed. Astoria reached out and squeezed her husband's hand without removing her other from Scorpius's shoulder. Draco smiled at her, and his eye caught Harry Potter's across the station. They had not spoken to any of the other students about the strange occurrence with the narration. Only he, Harry, Hermione, and Ron seemed to remember it, and all had wished to forget sooner rather than later. Harry nodded covertly, and Draco returned the gesture, then returned to say goodbye to his little son. But he wasn't worried._

_Narration had not bothered Draco Malfoy for nineteen years. All was well._


End file.
